In the light of the silvery moon the fairies gather in the secret glen. Gossamer wings of every hue shimmer and shine with each shrug of a tiny shoulder. Petal-clad feet tap a beat to the sound of the wind softly whistling through the emerald leaves.

Enchanted laughter tinkles as the wee folk whirl and dance in gleeful abandonment. Foxgloves nod in silent appreciation of the dance of the Fey. Chirping crickets offer up their night-song.

Circles of mushrooms surround the fairies as they weave a healing balm for the ravaged earth. Rituals as old as time itself are performed in this place.

The Old-ones warn the sons and daughters of man who want to join in the fairy dance. Time has no essence within the hallowed ring and is not measured with human years.

Those that enter are sometimes lost to time and place as years may pass in a blink of an eye. Some never return disappearing forever into the Netherworld between this one and that.

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“I cannot write anymore,” I declare throwing the pen onto the desk. “It’s no-use. I have no more thoughts.”

Putting my head on the scarred wooden desk I groan in frustration. “I can’t think. I just can’t think,” I mutter to myself.

Hearing the scraping of a chair being pulled out beside me, I look up. “Having problems?” Mrs. Booth asks as she sits down beside my desk.

“It’s my short story. It just won’t write.” Taking the paper she begins to read, quietly sounding out each word.

“I know your problem, you are thinking.” “Of course I am, isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?” I thought to myself. I think Mrs. Booth can read my thoughts because she looks at me with that knowing smile as she hands the paper back.

“Sometimes a writer has to stop thinking in order to feel. Keep your mind idle as the emotions rise from some other place. Let the words flow from your pen. Afterwards you can engage your mind to edit and critique your story. But allow the story the freedom to flow so that it can take on a voice of its own.”

I wait until Mrs. Booth makes her way back to the front of the classroom. Taking a deep breath I reach for my pen. Closing my eyes I begin to hear the fluttering sound of fairy wings. I can smell the delicate scent of lilacs as tired fairies with drooping wings lounge upon the mushroom caps.

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